


Yours Truly, Mr. Blue Sky

by nightingalesdonotsing (songbirdonvoyage)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Ouroboros!Crowley, Post-Canon, Random Historical References, Romantic Fluff, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdonvoyage/pseuds/nightingalesdonotsing
Summary: They have celebrated so many joyous occasions in the past six thousand years, except themselves.So, they celebrate themselves, after a round of afternoon tea at the Ritz.





	Yours Truly, Mr. Blue Sky

.

.

.

It was a fine afternoon when Crowley slithered around his room in his slithery, snakey self.

Humans said all snakes are slimy. However, nothing could be further from the truth. Scales catching a glossy sheen under the light, underbelly reminiscent of the forbidden fruit hanging low in the Garden of Eden... Crowley was never slimy, excuse you. He looked so magnificent in black and red he singlehandedly invented the colour scheme for the goth subculture in the 80s.

Now, one thing to always remember was that Crowley loved a good stretch. He sorely needed one after his trip down to Alexandria to see his long-nurtured temptation came into fruition, namely a glorious mess of war and bloodshed. One may think that a demonic being like himself needed nothing as trivial as such, but he simply liked it. So, like a demon that he was, he indulged in it. Besides, the sensation of his scales on the sunbathed floor by the window was always nice. It reminded him of a hug.

As an elongated and limbless creature, what would he do when he felt a persistent itch on his tail?

He curled up his body and stretched his jaw over his tail, careful to not puncture skin with his sharp fangs. He rubbed the roof of his mouth over the offending spot for temporary relief. When there's a will, there's a way.

Crowley never believed in coincidence—everything was ineffable, so it made perfect sense that everything was ineffably arranged beforehand. He could not even bring himself to feel surprised when Aziraphale walked right into him nibbling on himself.

God and her playing cards, he figured.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted. The angel never shouted at him, the most he could muster was a raised tone—often laced with exasperation, usually at whatever demonic deeds he did. "My Goodness, what are you doing!"

Aziraphale decided from the get-go that Crowley was simply too famished to think straight and he managed to stop a horrific act of demon auto-cannibalism. After coming to his rescue by almost dislodging his fangs, Aziraphale miracled them right away to his favourite restaurant in Memphis for a quick refreshment. A few hushed words with the waiter and they were served a feast of roasted birds, slices of honeyed bread and a great variety of dates as appetizer.

Crowley almost protested that they could feed at least five with all these food, but he held his tongue. Letting Aziraphale coddled him all over was not a bad idea, really.

It took a few cups of mead (and another plate of figs and cheese, Aziraphale insisted) down the system to calm Aziraphale down, and Crowley thought he was supposed to be the one that needed calming.

"Why, Crowley," Aziraphale mumbled, sipping on his third cup already. "From what I see, it certainly looks like you are consuming yourself whole." He shuddered. "Frightfully so, consider how large your jaw can be."

It was not a baseless concern—snakes could unhinge their jaws to swallow preys a few times their size. He was always reminded of its convenience when he was in his corporate form.

Then again, he need not to contain many huge objects in his mouth.

Except, maybe...

"Why would I want to eat myself whole?" Crowley coughed. "Anyway, thanks for stopping by and check on me, you know." He took a bite too huge from his goose leg, almost choking himself on a piece of meat.

Aziraphale let out a satiated hum when he bit into a ripe, juicy fig. "I figured I could visit you, after your trip to Alexandria." He patted the stray fig juice at the corner of his lip with a handkerchief. Crowley might have watched a while too long. "It would be wonderful to hear a few good stories."

"You fancy blood and gore?" he snickered.

"Nonsense," Aziraphale chided, not unkindly. "Triumph and downfall, love and hatred, all the things humans do to tear themselves asunder."

"Cheers, then." Crowley raised his cup, the pale golden liquid sloshing around. "To humans and their silly deeds."

Aziraphale knocked his cup onto his, his smile radiant as the Nile River bathing in twilight's hue.

Eventually, Crowley found the whole incident amusing enough that he slipped the imagery in question into the Egyptians' minds. He also visited Cleopatra's dream for good measure. The alchemist. Not the queen, mind you.

When Aziraphale caught wind of the Ouroboros' existence, they had a good-natured laugh about it. Little did they know the symbol would be chiseled on the walls of Pharaohs' tombstones centuries later, revered and worshiped in its full serpentine glory. Crowley received confused but overall positive remarks from his superiors for his outstanding work.

It quickly became an unspoken deal between them to celebrate the day, in which Crowley eventually dubbed it as Ouroboros Day. It was not frequent, a once-in-a-decade affair at a nice restaurant of Aziraphale's choice. Then again, they did have plenty of excuses ('Napkin Day', for starters, and there's 'Crowley Gets His Bentley Day') for good food and company, not to mention the impromptu arrangements for sudden cravings.

Crowley dismissed the whole practice as pretentious. Aziraphale, on the other hand, adored the ceremonial touch.

"You see," he mused. "The humans love a good origin story for any occasion they celebrate." It was an affectionate laugh, not unlike a mother would give to a child.

"Tell me about it," Crowley scoffed and took another sip of the Provencal Rosé. He never really like his alcohol pink but he went along with Aziraphale's sentimental whim ("Oh my, Whispering Angel, how appropriate.") "Remember Saturnalia? They changed it to Christmas when the carpenter dude is born. They love to switch their stories, don't they?"

The Ritz was always bustling with patrons flocking in for a taste of London's finest afternoon tea, even more so on a Friday evening. Aziraphale insisted that he liked the spot due to its scrumptious pastries, but Crowley had a sneaking suspicion that it was more than that. If anything, Aziraphale looked a great deal holier than he already was amongst the soft lighting and lavish furnishings—Crowley could almost see the celestial glow emanating from him.

"Now I remember," he said. "You were the Lord of Misrule for one time, weren't you?"

It seemed like Aziraphale was suddenly very fixated on the pastry cart further away from their table. "Was I?"

"Yeah, you were. Good memories." The Rosé was tasting better already. "You do sick partying, man. Pity you don't do it enough."

"It is not like I wanted to celebrate it..." Another bite of the scone to hide his frown. "They were really rowdy and rude, it's my duty to influence them with good character."

What Aziraphale did, as Crowley fondly remembered, was more than mere good influence. He swallowed everything unspoken with another swig of his alcohol.

"Gabriel did not find out anything, thank Goodness..." Aziraphale shuddered. "Angels are not supposed to meddle with human holidays, much less celebrating it."

"How about Valentine's Day? You celebrate it."

"That's different, Crowley." His voice rose in palpable pride. "Saint Valentine's a bright man, his deeds would always be remembered by many."

To say that Aziraphale loved Valentine's Day was a gross understatement. His bookstore festooned in pink and red sweetheart garlands, printouts of romantic quotes littered everywhere in flowery script... Besides Christmas, it was the only man-made celebration he would go above and beyond for. The center display, without fail, would always be his personal recommendation of romantic novels that he would never sell to anyone. First editions, of course.

"He was persecuted by your lot, wasn't he?"

"A martyr for love," he sighed. "Everyone in Heaven is very much in love with the whole idea. "

"Except for you."

"Well, I like the flowers. And the chocolate," he said sheepishly.

It was all corporate scam, really. All the chocolates and roses and broken promises. He never questioned his shenanigans of fitting in with the humans though, not when handmade chocolates were involved in this case.

"The chocolates you sent, erm, I like them. They tasted rather well." Aziraphale may be a proud owner of a fine palate, but that certainly did not translate to his culinary skills. Crowley once bit into a piece of chili in his chocolate and all hell broke loose. Literally or not, you decide.

"Well, it took me quite a while—Wait, you like my chocolates?"

"I mean, yeah. I do." His stomach took a lurch downward.

Crowley had kept every heart-shaped box in pristine condition deep in his closet. The greeting cards were framed and hung above his bed headboard, he would run out of wall space soon but he did not care the least.

"I thought you never liked them..." He repeated, more for his own sake than anyone else. "I mean, you never told me..."

"I ate them all, angel," Crowley said, pulling off his most convincing look. "And I really like them."

A content grin, and Aziraphale polished off the last piece of pear and chocolate tart. "You're welcome."

Crowley made a ferocious mental note (scribbled all over in bold, red ink) to send him the biggest box of chocolates he could find next year. A bouquet of roses, too.

"Well, that was scrumptious," he said. "So where shall we go next? The theatre? Or the Sky Garden?"

"Wherever you fancy, angel." Crowley signaled the waiter for the bill. "I'll pay."

"No." His face scrunched as though he just ate a lemon. "I'll pay for us."

"Don't fight with me, angel," he sighed.

"No, you've paid for last round at The Araki!" He beamed a smile at the approaching waiter. "Hello there, I'll have the bill, please. I do have a voucher for the—"

"No, I'll have the bill."

"Crowley!"

"Looks like you will need to choose,"—a look at the waiter's name tag—"Adrian."

"Stop terrifying the poor boy." Aziraphale tried to shush him with his hand swatting about in the air. "Just let me pay the bill."

"Choose, Adrian. Me or the angel?"

"Please, sir, I am not supposed to do that..." He started to back off.

"Me." Crowley stood up from his seat. A step closer and he swore he heard a terrified squeak. "Or. The angel."

The payment terminal was nearly shoved into Crowley's face. He wasted no time and tapped his credit card on it. The machine whirred into its mechanical life and spurted out a long strip of paper. Adrian tore the receipt and handed it to Crowley in neat folds. He at least had the tact and grace to scurry off from the scene after a quick bow at them.

Aziraphale continued to stare.

"Contactless payment, angel."

"How dare you..."

A smile brighter than his flaming hair. "How dare I."

Aziraphale did not wait for him as he marched to the lobby, looking as threatening as he could ever be in his soft and somewhat threadbare beige ensemble. He took his leisure pace and sauntered behind him.

His footsteps came to a halt, so were his. Aziraphale turned to him, taut lips vaguely forming a resigned pout.

"You can walk me home at least, you bumbling..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Buffoon."

He could drive themselves back to the bookstore in his beloved Bentley, but if Aziraphale asked for a walk, a walk it was. Screw driving.

Crowley did not worry too much when Aziraphale refused to speak to him throughout their trip. He knew just the right thing to help his cause, and it was right around the corner of the bookshop.

Crowley loathed the crowd, and Piccadilly Circus on a Friday evening was the epitome of how a crowd was—it was as though the whole bloody London was out on the streets tonight. The scent of warm bodies moving about was overwhelming, nauseating. He would only tolerate it when Aziraphale was with him. He was a few steps ahead of Crowley, guiding them through the busy streets.

It was a trip down the rabbit hole—Crowley would follow a trail of endearing details he observed and he would just fall, and fall. The way the colourful fluorescent lights bounced off Aziraphale's twinkling eyes, the way his gaze chased after the smallest of interaction between two humans, the way he was so immersed in the sights and sounds without realizing that he himself was a scene to behold of...

Right now, Aziraphale was leaning against a wall, waiting for him to return from a trip to the café. Crowley took his sweet time walking, peace offering readied in his hand. He did not mind staring at him for a while longer.

Aziraphale took over the paper cup from him. "Thank you," he muttered.

"You're welcome, angel."

He took a sip of the cocoa and Crowley was pleased to see his eyes widened considerably. "... A shot of hazelnut liqueur with whipped cream," he said. "You remember my order."

He smiled. "Well, yeah, I did. No biggie, really."

The rest of the trip was enjoyed in content silent, with a few stolen glances between them.

The very last remnants of twilight were splotches of stray paints across the sky. The night was still young, especially so in Soho. Basked in the glowing streetlights and well-lit establishment, the bookshop from afar has a quaint, out-of-place sort of charm, not unlike its owner.

They stopped short at the entrance.

"Crowley?"

"Yes?"

Aziraphale turned to him, his expression was unusually determined.

"Would you..." He considered his words a while. "Would you like to have a cup of tea?"

"Tea?"

"Coffee," He blurted. "Or alcohol, you know. I still have a case of Macallan in the back."

"No more Rosé?"

"No more Rosé," he assured. "Why, you could have told me."

"There's plenty of things I could have told you, angel."

They walked into the welcoming silence of Aziraphale's bookshop. A hand wave and the door sign was flipped to 'Indefinitely Closed'.

The bookshop appeared the same as it always was, only cleaner. Come to think of it, it even seemed a tad wider than he remembered. It must be the new bookshelf from Adam, he reckoned.

He started a load of dirty cups and plates in the dishwasher. "Hey, where did you put—"

Aziraphale pulled him into an embrace.

He almost pushed him away, screw his demonic instincts. Aziraphale held on regardless, a steadfast grip. It felt a million times better than sunbathing in his scales. A real hug.

"Aziraphale." It was different than the last time he called out to him in the bookshop.

"Shush," he whispered. "Just let me hug you."

"What's the special occasion?"

"You deserve it, my dear, saving the world and everything else."

"You said you never going to talk to me again." He tried not to glower. He might have, though.

"I'm sorry." He did not sound apologetic at all. Cheeky bastard. "I was going to treat you a nice meal, but..."

"I don't need a nice meal, angel." His hands were coiled around him. "This is good enough, really." Truth to be told, this was more than what he imagined could have happened.

"Honestly, my dear..." His hands stopped short at his sunglasses. He nodded and Aziraphale took it off, tucked it all nice and snug in his suit pocket. "You always sell yourself short."

A snap of his fingers and the needle was lowered on the vinyl, strains of music started to pour out from the phonograph.

"What?" Crowley laughed. "We're dancing?"

He did not catch on to Aziraphale's telltale grin. When realization hit him, it only grew larger.

"Dining in the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely."

It only dawned onto him that Aziraphale was singing for him. A song that he fancied, from the band that he liked, performed by the angel that he loved. "You will pay the bill, I taste the wine." An escaped chuckle and he fell from the sky once again.

"Driving back in style." They were swaying gently to the song, a slow dance for the greatest love song in Crowley's mixtape. Aziraphale's voice was a soft, low hum, a resounding echo reverberating around the countless volumes of ancient tales. "In your saloon will do quite nice."

Then, Crowley realized, he had always wanted to write his own story.

Since the creation of everything, he was always an observer, a tempter with a few tricks up his sleeves, but never a participant.

Six millennia of time and space stretched across the horizon marked only by its ephemerality, there was only one story that mattered to him, and it would be written with the only one being that mattered to him.

Now, his story was reaching to a pivoting point.

"Just take me back to yours that will be fine," Crowley continued. "A good old-fashioned lover boy, aren't you?"

An amused stare, but not without a slight smile. They were still dancing, it must be quite a sight of miracle. "Well, I aim to impress."

They were close, really close. Hands on each other, mouths already ajar and ready. The air between them was charged, electrifying.

Then, he leaned in before he could.

Damn him and his timing.

Aziraphale's kisses were gentle, insistent—as though he was trying to coax a story out of him, as though he was trying to write every curve and line of his lips on him. He was a story collector. Now, he was a storyteller, and he was his story—he would gladly let him take over the narrative anytime he wanted.

And oh God, Satan, or whatever, he underestimated how soft his lips were. He was warm. So warm, so pliant in his arms. He felt his hands sliding into his hair, a cradle so gentle he was certain they were divinely guided.

The song went on, and on, and on, blurring into an indecipherable rhythm, only its saccharine touch remained. His lips tasted of cocoa with a sharp bite from the liqueur. When he pulled away, Crowley found himself missing it already.

"... I don't even like you," he recited, not entirely persuasive with how breathless he sounded. Considering the wince he got from Aziraphale, he nailed it regardless.

"That is not true," he whispered. "And you know full well that is not true, my dear."

"Hmm, some reminder will be great, you know." He flashed him the smirk that he loved so much.

"Well," Aziraphale nuzzled his forehead on his. "You paid the bill, and I tasted the wine."

"And the Afternoon Tea set. And the cocoa."

"They are all delicious." There was a bigger appetite tucked beneath that smile of his. "Let me treat you, then. I'll treat you well."

"Are you tempting me for dinner?"

A laugh followed by quick peck lingered a second too long on his lips. "Follow me and you'll know," Aziraphale said. His voice had taken on a deeper, rougher edge that he had never known from him.

Aziraphale's hands were on his and they were moving upstairs. He took in the calloused fingers marred by paper cuts, flesh and bones felt all too alien yet comforting, familiar.

His living quarters were above his bookstore, Crowley remembered.

His angel turned to him and gave him a smile. The kind that made the corner of his eyes crinkled, all teeth and wide lips. The kind that squeezed the air right out of his chest.

And he knew, he would follow him to the ends of the world, as he always did, as he always would.

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title : Mr. Blue Sky - Electric Light Orchestra  
> _______
> 
> ... I'm sorry, I could not resist. I'm supposed to study. Sorry for the backlog 8,DDD
> 
> A few comments here and there in a chat group, and here we are. If you are from the chat group, hi! 你好哦！
> 
> By the time I realized, I made them too chummy during the Memphis era. But eh, I don't feel like changing it, because they look so sweet like that. So bear with me for the canon inaccuracies.
> 
> & I AM SORRY FOR CHANGING SOME PART OF THE LYRICS. I adore the Queen & Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy is an awesome song, absolutely fitting for them. I could not resist using them in a fic when opportunity presents itself HAHAHA.
> 
> Aziraphale as the Lord of Misrule, Valentine's Day for the Ineffable Husbands... I may dwell into them in the future, maybe =P 
> 
> OKAY I DO HAVE EXAMS AHHH I SHALL GO BACK AND CONTINUE MY REVISION PLEASE BLESS ME WELL I WANT TO PASS AHHH


End file.
